


keep your eyes on me

by luftballons99



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunken Shenanigans, Eventual Fluff, Fluff, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Pole Dancing, Romance, VictUuri, still not over episode 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons99/pseuds/luftballons99
Summary: "There’s a million promises he has to keep - to Russia, to Yuri, and now, to a remarkable young Japanese man whose career seems to be as stuck as Viktor’s feels. He’s only interested in keeping one."
or
Viktor and Yuuri are less than thrilled at the prospect of attending the banquet following the Sochi Grand Prix Final. 16 glasses of champagne, a drunken dance off, and a stripper pole later, they're over it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hoemoghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoemoghost/gifts).



> title from "Shut Up And Dance With Me" by WALK THE MOON, because it works
> 
> also THIS IS FOR YOU CLAIR ILY

**Viktor Nikiforov**

 

It’s not that Viktor _hates_ fancy banquets like this. They’re fine. A little bright and a little loud, but the food is good and the drink makes his chest feel warm, despite his underwhelmed emotions. Viktor might even go so far as to say he finds them pleasant. It would be a shame if he didn’t, after all. This seems like the hundredth one he’s attended.

Yuri Plisetsky sticks to his side as close as possible without actually touching him (like always) and pretends not to be overwhelmed by the attention he’s getting from fellow skaters and photographers alike. Viktor is more or less used to the commotion. Once he notices Yuri’s growing irritability, he guides him to the edge of the banquet hall where it’s possible to shift on your feet and not bump shoulders with someone.

Viktor exhales a quiet breath of relief at the slight increase in privacy. Yuri is happy to be away from the crowd, too - or at least as happy as Yuri Plisetsky can be.

Viktor idly watches sparkling liquid swirl in his flute as he twirls it lightly between his fingers, wondering how fast he can spin it without spilling anything. The champagne’s mirror-like surface dangerously flirts along the rim of the glass at ever-shifting angles.

“Hey,” Yuri says from below, scowling up at Viktor in a way that is both exhausting and just a little endearing simultaneously. “Why do you look so depressed, old man?”

Viktor purses his lips. “Rude,” he chastises simply and shoves Yuri’s lovely nickname for him somewhere deep down so he doesn’t have to think about it. His slowly receding hairline and stagnating career are enough of a reminder of his age; he doesn’t need spunky teenagers referring to him as ‘old man,’ too.

In retaliation, Viktor lightly pinches and stretches Yuri’s youthfully chubby cheek. Yuri sputters a string of grumbled profanities that would usually be shouted if it weren’t for the fact that they’re in public. “You look cute,” Viktor says, just to be an asshole, because he knows it’ll make Yuri angry. Besides, he is not ashamed to admit that there’s some truth to it, as well.

Yuri, predictably, disputes Viktor’s assessment as forcefully as he can without making a scene. Viktor places a hand over his heart in mock apology. “Ah, of course,” he says, “I meant to say _tough_ and _manly_ and _not at all reminiscent of an excitable kitten_ \- “

“ _I am going to break your kneecaps_ ,” Yuri interrupts dangerously.

“I guess those are all you can reach from way down there, huh?” Viktor counters with a saccharine smile.

Yuri bristles, insisting that _actually_ , there are other parts of Viktor’s anatomy that would be much more receptive to a painful kick that Yuri can definitely reach, “If you’re interested, _smartass_.” Viktor casually sips his champagne, glancing around the room to make sure they haven’t acquired an audience. Despite being a professional athlete, Viktor is a relatively private person, and he’s not sure he wants any more time in the spotlight tonight.

It is at this moment where he is contemplating avoiding all attention when his is completely robbed by the young man he spots out of the corner of his eye. He pauses, lowering his glass and craning his neck to get a better look. Recognition makes him blink in surprise.

_It’s that fan from earlier - but why is he_ here _?_

Yuri is still stage-whispering insults as Viktor curiously watches a man with long dark hair wrap an arm around the fan’s shoulders and grin encouragingly. Viktor can’t see the boy’s face from where he’s standing, but his shoulders are slumped and his spine curved forward.

It hits Viktor, then. _He’s a skater, too_ . Well, no _wonder_ he had marched off when Viktor asked if he wanted a commemorative photo. He’s not a fan - he’s a fellow competitor. _Oops_.

He watches with mild interest as the young man ( _The skater from Japan; what was his name…?_ ) trudges over to the drinks table, snatching a glass and a bottle of champagne. He mechanically pours himself a drink and then downs the whole thing in one go. He moves to pour himself another, but when he realizes that there are already full champagne glasses waiting to be taken advantage of, he puts the bottle down and swipes two of them. He starts chugging both at once.

Viktor raises an eyebrow. _Oh_.

“What are you _looking_ at - _oh_ , is that the Japanese guy?” Yuri says, reacquiring Viktor’s attention. Viktor looks down at him and is surprised to find a look of intense disdain - disgust, almost - on Yuri’s face. He’s often heard the boy’s fans praise his features as cherubic and beautiful, and on the ice that may be true, but Yuri has an unrivaled talent for distorting his expressions when he’s angry so that he looks not only downright evil, but comically unattractive as well. Viktor wishes his fan base could see him now. He stifles a laugh as Yuri goes on. “Can you believe it?” the boy snarls, arms crossing, the fabric of the overlong suit sleeves bunching at his elbows. “I walked in on him crying in the bathroom earlier. How _pathetic_.”

Viktor’s grin falters. “Oh,” he says quietly, turning his head again to search for the young Japanese skater. He’s still at the drinks table, but the amount of empty glasses surrounding him as grown, and his stiff limbs seem to have relaxed. When he reaches for another glass at the far end of the table, he wobbles precariously. Viktor watches amusedly as he throws his head back to sip down the champagne, leaning back farther and farther as the drink in his flute disappears down his throat, until his balance fails him completely and he’s stumbling backwards and almost falls on his ass. Viktor briefly considers going over to help him - partially because he feels a little guilty about assuming he had been a fan earlier (Yakov has always said he needs to work on his ego) and partially because he has a feeling the kid is going to do something embarrassing if this goes on.

Yuri sharply jabs him in the side. Viktor’s upper body lurches forward at the shock and he accidentally spills some champagne on the expensive hardwood floor of the banquet hall. “ _Yuratchka_ ,” Viktor warns, rubbing his side protectively.

“You keep staring at him. What’s wrong with you?” Yuri asks sharply.

Viktor isn’t quite sure. “Nothing,” he says patiently, licking spilled champagne off his fingers. “I’m just people watching.”

Yuri glares. “You’re person-watching,” he corrects.

Viktor rolls his eyes. “If I let you try some of my champagne, will you consider being a little less ornery?”

Yuri tries to maintain his scowl, but the fascinated glint in his eyes gives him away. “Can I really?” he whispers.

Viktor sighs. There’s not much left in his glass, anyway. “Just a little, okay?” He holds the lip of the glass against Yuri’s mouth and lets him take a sip before retracting his hand and watching a look of absolute disgust infect his features.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , that’s awful,” Yuri coughs, wiping his mouth on his expensive suit sleeve, almost making Viktor wince. “Do you think they have soda here?”

Viktor chuckles against the tips of his fingers. “They might,” he answers before ruffling Yuri’s hair. “Go ask someone.” Viktor drinks the last of his champagne, licking the residue off his bottom lip, and adds: “I’m going to get another drink, since _somebody_ spilled most of mine.”

Yuri scoffs. “Have fun with that,” he says, eyeing the Japanese skater emptying glasses of champagne left and right. Viktor ignores the comment, walking over.

 

* * *

 

**Yuuri Katsuki**

 

The interesting thing about embarrassing yourself on a global scale is that your initial crushing mortification and pleads for death are quickly replaced by chilling, inescapable numbness that lasts for much, much longer than the few minutes spent humiliating yourself in the first place.

It is safe to say, therefore, that Yuuri Katsuki has absolutely no interest in attending the banquet following the Sochi Grand Prix Final. (He has no interest in doing anything at all, actually, but _especially_ not in attending lavish parties.) Yuuri was already bad at socializing before his career-shattering blunder earlier. A fancy banquet with all the athletes he just lost to? He’ll pass.

Or rather, he _wants_ to pass, but Yuuri, evidently, is a man of many un-talents, and is capable of being irredeemably bad at two things at once: socializing and saying ‘no’. So when Celestino suggests they go, Yuuri doesn’t protest.

Instead, he prays that death comes swiftly and zeroes in on the nearest bottle of champagne. He isn’t usually a drinker, but from what he’s observed, alcohol helps take your edge off. And Yuuri has a _lot_ of edge.

He loses count of how much champagne he’s had after the fifth glass.

In fact, he loses a lot of things after the fifth glass - his balance, his ability to form a coherent thought, and control of his motor skills. He can’t figure out how to undo his tie, which is a problem because it just - it’s too tight and he’s too warm and everything is going fuzzy around the edges.

He keeps drinking, more out of principle than pleasure.

Someone steps into Yuuri’s blurry peripheral vision, and for a second he thinks it might be Celestino, but Celestino isn’t as tall, nor does he have silvery hair, and he _definitely_ isn’t Viktor Nikiforov -

“That’s Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuuri blurts, speech slurred and ugly and too loud even to his own ears. Viktor is standing just a few feet away, but Yuuri still feels the need to point at him and repeat, at a slightly higher volume than before, “ _Viktor Nikiforov_.”

Viktor blinks, dumbstruck, and reigns his delicate but broad hand back in toward his body from where it had been reaching for a flute of champagne. He recovers from his initial surprise and smiles politely.

“Hi there,” he says, just as Yuuri takes a step towards him. Viktor takes one small step back. But Yuuri doesn’t stop; he takes another step and another until his chest is almost flush with Viktor’s and he can smell his cologne (a secret lifelong dream of his). Yuuri feels his face heating up, feels the sweat gathering at his forehead, feels the desire to fulfill his insipid dreams of burying his nose into the crook of Viktor’s neck. He doesn’t.

(The Sochi Grand Prix Final, Yuuri decides, is where dreams go to die, and the banquet that succeeds it is where Yuuri goes to get plastered and make a fool out of himself in front of his idol, preferably without getting a sexual harassment charge.)

Viktor is about to speak when Yuuri places a silencing, graceless finger over his glossy lips, noting absently that they’re ridiculously soft, and sets his jaw in determination.

“ _Yuu-ri Ka-tsu-ki_ ,” he enunciates sharply, smacking his free hand over his heart as if to say _that’s me, right here_ . He straightens his spine and adds: “I do _not_ want a com - commerative - _commemorative photo_.”

Viktor blinks his pretty eyelashes, taken aback. His lips move against Yuuri’s finger when he speaks, a little sheepish. “Of course; I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to offend- “

Yuuri narrows his eyes. “Offend _this_ ,” he slurs nonsensically as he steps back to execute a perfect three-turn pirouette.

Viktor stares blankly. “What was that?”

Yuuri huffs, head spinning. He’s a little disoriented, but he won’t let that stop him. He gets an amazing idea just then and his mouth spreads into a goofy grin.

“I’m - dancing - for - you,” he explains while doing another pirouette, a word punctuating each turn.

He grounds himself once again, this time heavily dizzy and unable to stand upright without his hands on Viktor’s shoulders. He stares dreamily into the same clear blue eyes he’s fantasized about for his whole life, the same eyes that mistook him for just another fan earlier, and cheers: “Dance with me, Viktorrrr!”

Viktor gulps, seemingly unsure of what to do with his hands, cluelessly beautiful. Yuuri could kiss him. “Um.”

When Viktor gives no indication that he’s going to say anything else, Yuuri pouts. “ _Fffine_ ,” he drawls, pushing himself off of Viktor and reaching blindly for a bottle of champagne while making heated eye contact. It takes him a few tries to grab hold of the bottle, but when he does, he makes his way to the center of the room and takes a long drink, loosening his tie. He tears his lips off the bottle with a _pop_ and festively raises it above his head. “I’ll dance _by myself_!”

Yuuri grins at the bewildered look on Viktor’s pretty face and starts moving.

 

* * *

 

**Viktor Nikiforov**

 

Viktor, if he’s being honest, has no earthly clue what’s going on.

_All I wanted was a glass of champagne_ , Viktor reflects as Yuuri Katsuki demonstrates his surprisingly adept dancing skills a few feet away.

Viktor has attended banquets like this before. He has the etiquette down, knows when to crack a joke and fake a smile, can predict every bit of small talk imposed on him. An almost perfect stranger getting drunk and blisteringly handsy while performing _ballet_ is not part of the plan, ever.

Yuuri’s movements when he dances are fluid, natural - perhaps because of the drink. Viktor would have remembered him if he had been that way on the ice, too. Interesting what a difference a little bit of liquid courage can make.

Viktor glances back at the 16 champagne flutes Yuuri has emptied.

_Right. So a_ lot _of liquid courage_.

“ _Oi_ , Viktor,” Yuuri drawls, expression unamused as he wobbles back over. Viktor tenses a little, not knowing what to expect.

“Yes?” he asks, voice abnormally high pitched. Yuuri takes another drink from the bottle, head tipped back and adam’s apple bobbing distractingly. Viktor is struck with the troubling urge to trace the tendons in his neck with his finger. For a split second, a moment of brief insanity, he thinks he might just do it, but Yuuri’s face swings back into view and this time, Viktor is captivated by his glassy, shining eyes above all else.

“You’re not even _watching me_ ,” Yuuri whines, grabbing hold of Viktor’s tie and yanking demandingly. “ _Watch me_. Take pictures!”

Viktor presses his lips into a fine line. “Pictures?”

Yuuri nods enthusiastically, grinning like a goofy kid again, and Viktor’s heart pinches uncomfortably. “I want you,” he says, and Viktor thinks for a moment that there’s no more to that statement, that that is all Yuuri is going to say (which makes him feel an interesting cocktail of nausea and fascination that he doesn’t quite know what to do with) but then Yuuri continues with a cheerful “To remember me!” and it takes Viktor a minute to put the pieces of Yuuri’s statement and his own apparently shattered common sense back together.

Viktor, incidentally, does not think he could forget Yuuri Katsuki if he tried; not anymore, at least. Anyone who can dance like that (and _look_ like that, honestly, _he’s so_ \- ) with over 16 glasses of champagne in their system is worth remembering.

“Okay,” Viktor smiles and agrees anyway. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and Yuuri stares straight into the camera as he orders “ _Look at me_.”

He chugs more champagne, takes a breath, and moves his body with the smoothness of freshly polished ice, but with a million times more heat. He makes eye contact with Viktor the whole time, hips moving tantalizingly from side to side, graceful arms bending and twisting as he steps into his next sequence of moves. Viktor manages to snap a few pictures, including a few of Yuuri close up and blushing heavily, but it isn’t long before he’s asked to participate again, and he’s honestly happy to oblige. This is more fun than awkward small talk, anyway.

He pockets his phone and meets Yuuri in the center of the room, following his movements closely and matching his pace. He glances over his shoulder, sees the happy look on Yuuri’s face, and stops trying to smother the grin that forms on his own.

They’ve gained an audience, Viktor realizes, but he has more pressing things to think about right now.

They start at opposing poles of the ‘dance floor,’ but as their push-pull dance continues and stretches into a length of time Viktor can’t really quantify, they gravitate towards each other and meet in the middle. Yuuri’s shirt has somehow been unbuttoned and suddenly Viktor has to fight _not_ to tear his eyes away from Yuuri’s and stare at the delicate, now exposed musculature that comes from years of skating.

Suddenly, Yuuri’s heated chest is pressing against his back, a sweaty palm resting over Viktor’s stomach, and now they really are dancing _together_ , Yuuri leading and Viktor following eagerly. They’re both grinning, short, breathy laughs escaping their lungs whenever they meet eyes. When Yuuri dips Viktor, a hand on his damp cheek, all big smiles and shimmering eyes, Viktor can’t help but burst out laughing - not because of the absurdity of all of this (he’s already come to terms with _that_ ), but because of how unapologetically _happy_ Yuuri looks, just because of a dance. It makes Viktor feel unspeakably warm, his chest tight and cheeks flushed, and when Yuuri joins him in elated laughter, Viktor is pulled up into a standing position and stared at with a kind of uncontainable joy that he’s never seen before.

And then he remembers who and where he is. He whips his head around and sees that quite literally all eyes are on them, including a pair of fiery green ones peering over the top of a tiger-cased smartphone.

“ _Hey Viktor!_ ” Yuri roars, obviously thinking that if Viktor isn’t going to conform to banquet etiquette, why should he? “ _Got a minute?!_ ”

The banquet hall erupts into scandalized whispers and sideways glances as Yuri marches over with his eyes locked on Viktor’s, hands fisted and movements jerky. Viktor has his hands at Yuuri’s elbows and Yuuri has his curled around Viktor’s biceps. Neither of them think to separate even when Yuri fixes them with the nastiest glare he can muster, channeling all the fury trapped in his small body into a piercing stare.

“Yes?” Viktor prompts and Yuri immediately pushes him and Yuuri apart and steps between them, facing Viktor.

“What the hell do you think you’re _doing_?!” Yuri grits out, seething and trembling with rage. Behind him, Yuuri is winking at Viktor and licking his lips, loosening his tie even more. Viktor clears his throat.

“I’m dancing,” he explains pleasantly, shrugging. “Is there a problem?”

Yuri blushes, lip wobbling in frustration. “You _left_ me _alone_ for _him_!” he whispers, voice high and sharp.

Viktor is reminded that Yuri is still a child and realizes that ditching him at a high-end banquet probably wasn’t the best idea he’s ever had. He almost feels regret, but then Yuri speaks.

“I mean - _him_ , of all people?! I thought you were better than that!” Yuri scoffs in disbelief.

Viktor purses his lips. “Well, that wasn’t very nice.” He glances over to Yuuri, who is chugging down more champagne before he focuses back on Viktor, looking absolutely _debauched_ and frankly a little crazy, and then thinks _Okay, he may have a point, but -_

His thoughts are interrupted when Yuuri’s head snaps up to lock eyes with Viktor and whisper an enlightened “ _Dance off._ ”

Yuri whirls around to face him, blushing furiously when he notices his state of undress, and gawks. “ _Huh?!_ ”

Yuuri grabs Yuri by the shoulder and repeats: “ _Dance off_ ,” eyes glittering in excitement. “Let’s do a dance off!”

Viktor and Yuri give each other a look while Yuuri bubbles with laughter.

“Sounds like fun!” Viktor decides suddenly. He turns to the challenger. “Yuri’s in.”

Yuri cracks his knuckles threateningly. “I’m _what_?”

Viktor laughs, eyes glittering with mirth. “Uh-oh, _that’s_ not a happy face,” he says light-heartedly, pointing to Yuri’s twisted expression, and then bops the boy’s pointy nose with his forefinger.

Yuri Plisetsky looks vaguely like he’s about to explode and kill everyone in the room in a fiery burst of rage. Yuuri Katsuki is trying to figure out how to conjure more champagne out of the now empty bottle he’s holding.

This, Viktor assumes, is not at all how any of them thought their night would turn out, but he doubts any attempts to salvage it by striking up conversations with the people around them would be productive at this point, and he hasn’t had this kind of spontaneous fun in a long time.

He gives Yuri an encouraging nudge and a bright smile. Yuri considers, but he seems to be angry about it.

A few challenging words from Yuuri later and Russia’s ice tiger (as he likes to call himself) assumes his place on the dance floor in a resolute flourish of movement.

 

* * *

 

“Who is _that_?” Viktor hears a deep, familiar voice wonder from somewhere behind him. He turns and meets the eyes of Christophe Giacometti, a close friend and fellow skater. He casually places a hand on Viktor’s shoulder as they watch the two Yuris show off their skills in a variety of different dance styles. Viktor (as well as a few other spectators) has been snapping pictures. Everyone else has sort of come to terms with the fact that this isn’t really a banquet anymore. “Wait, don’t tell me.”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Viktor states with a smile, just as the young man in question cartwheels into a one-armed handstand. The ends of his unbuttoned shirt go limp and useless at his sides, exposing more of his sweaty skin. Viktor feels strangely vulnerable and looks away. “He came in last.”

Chris looks both confused and entertained. “ _Why_?” he laughs, and Viktor joins him. He doesn’t know, either. Yuuri has talent. You don’t need to be as experienced (or as smitten) as Viktor is to see it, either.

 

* * *

 

“You know,” Yuuri starts conversationally, heavily leaning on Viktor with his arms curled around his neck. Somehow, Yuuri’s pants have come off. Viktor isn’t quite sure when that happened, and he can’t really say how he feels about it. “I took some - some pole dancing lessons in America, you know.”

His dance off with Yuri has just ended, decidedly undecided. Yuri is readjusting his clothes a few feet away, looking peeved as always. Viktor can tell he had fun. He wants to go over and congratulate him, but a thumb brushing over his lips distracts him.

Yuuri Katsuki is sweating profusely, his entire body sticky and wet. Viktor shouldn’t be letting Yuuri hang all over him like that, but, well…

If he secretly likes the feeling of Yuuri’s breath on his cheek and the glimmer in his hooded eyes, that’s nobody’s business but his.

“Really?” Chris interjects, voice too loud. Viktor has the sneaking suspicion that he’s been drinking, too - though it is always hard to tell with Chris.

Yuuri grins, laughing low in his throat and plastering himself to Viktor’s side. “ _Yup_!”

“Are you any good?”

“I’m _reeeeaaaaally_ good,” Yuuri assures with the kind of confidence you wouldn’t expect from someone who started his evening drinking extensively by himself. He smirks. Viktor is a weak, weak man. “ _So_ good.”

A challenging glint manifests itself in Chris’s eyes. Viktor does not like where this is going.

“Prove it,” Chris says simply. Yuuri grins. Viktor goes into septic shock.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t long after Chris gets involved when a stripper pole is erected in the middle of the room and people’s clothes start coming off. Viktor, initially, wants to ask where on earth it came from, but upon reflection realizes that it had to be from Chris.

Viktor is equal parts bewildered and turned on as he watches Yuuri curl his long legs around the pole and swing around it. He makes eye contact with Viktor the whole time, soft-looking skin flushed, sweat and spilled champagne glistening on his muscled thighs.

Viktor has never been to a strip club. The idea never really did much for him. It would be awkward, he thought, to watch someone you don’t even know get naked. And you’re not even allowed to touch them.

But what Viktor would give to just be able to _look_ , to keep watching Yuuri bloom and fall apart the way he is right now, all seductive twists and heated glances. He slides and curls and swings and even _grinds_ at one point - which makes Viktor’s heart pound even harder - as if he’s done it a million times before. He climbs and winds around the pole like ivy and Viktor, inexplicably, wishes he was the subject of that kind of contact.

He finds himself, somehow, _wanting_ Yuuri and mentally crops Chris, who is eagerly sharing the spotlight with him, out of the picture. He focuses all his attention on the young Japanese skater whose name he didn’t even know earlier today.

Yuri Plisetsky is not as interested in the show as Viktor is, though he does snap some pictures. “For evidence,” he clarifies vaguely. Viktor doesn’t ask.

Yuuri descends, crotch grinding against the pole as he slowly slides down it. His eyes are locked on Viktor’s.

Viktor stiffens (in _posture_!) as Yuuri wobbles over. Yuuri is, in Viktor’s conflicted opinion, both concerningly underdressed and grossly overdressed at the same time. His mind goes blank.

He still hasn’t quite registered what just happened by the time Yuuri’s damp arms are wrapped around his middle and a flushed, stupid-happy face is pressed into the center of his chest.

Somewhere in the background (everything aside from Yuuri is just background now) Chris dismounts the pole as well, gathering his and Yuuri’s discarded clothes off the floor.

Viktor has even more trouble focusing on that when Yuuri starts, as crude as it sounds, _humping his leg_ , a dopey grin on his face. Viktor’s eyes are wide and his arms are limp while the people around them start to hiss under their breaths. He remembers faintly that Yuri is right next to him and far too young to witness this kind of thing. He’s not really sure what to do about it.

“ _Viktor_ ,” Yuuri slurs happily, hips still squirming against Viktor’s leg. “After this season ends, my family owns a hot spring resort in Hasetsu. You have to come visit!”

Viktor blanches. _Oh_ , he thinks. _Oh my._

“If I win this dance off,” Yuuri continues, turning his head so his chin is pressed against Viktor’s chest and his bleary but shimmering eyes stare into his, enthralled. Viktor is suddenly amazed at the size of them. “You’ll become my coach, right?” His smile grows, takes over his whole face with a sort of innocence that does not at _all_ correspond with what’s currently happening with his hips, and it is at that moment that Viktor falls in love.

“Be my coach, Viktooorrr!” Yuuri sings, jumping up to hug Viktor around his neck and rubbing their cheeks together.

A smitten flush erupts on Viktor’s face. He can’t help but gasp, can’t help but lightly hug Yuuri around the waist. Yuuri, after one night, has marked up Viktor’s heart like blades on ice and Viktor has no hope of recovery.

(He’s not sure yet, but he has a feeling that this is it. That it will always be _this_ , whatever this is. That it will always be Yuuri.)

Yuuri squeals, nose pressing delightedly into the side of Viktor’s neck, and Viktor wishes Yuuri would just kiss him, wishes that he would close the gap so that Viktor wouldn’t have to.

Viktor wishes, not for the first time while attending one of these banquets, that he were drunk, too.

But this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Yuuri is absolutely wrecked. Viktor can’t. He just can’t.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” he says quietly, wondering if they should really be on first-name basis, patting the boy’s back and letting his touch linger. “Yuuri - “

“ _Viktor_ ,” Yuri Plisetsky hisses incredulously. Viktor has trouble admitting to himself that he totally forgot Yuri was there. “ _You fucking cock waffle._ Let _go_ of him!”

_Cock waffle?_ , Viktor thinks, eyebrows knitted in disapproval - he’s definitely going to have to talk to Yuri about language later -

“Don’t you _dare_ give me that look when you just finished drooling over your new boyfriend here -” Yuri pauses his rant to jab the young man in Viktor’s arms in the shoulder - “doing a strip tease for everybody! _Nasty_!"

“ _Nasty_ ,” Yuuri repeats, but the way he says it, tongue running over his bottom lip and eyes peeking out from under his eyelashes, it has a different connotation. Viktor’s head spins.

From somewhere Viktor can’t see, Chris wolf whistles.

The dance off is decidedly over when Yuuri slips out of Viktor’s arms and morphs into a dopey puddle on the floor.

 

* * *

 

It seems like most of the banquet guests are eager to pretend like Yuuri Katsuki never happened. Viktor could not do that if he tried. He’s not even sure he would want to, even as his heart constricts as Yuuri’s coach tries to haul Yuuri off.

They are outside. The air is cold and stings Viktor’s quickly reddening cheeks. Yuuri’s taxi is waiting. Viktor has yet to call one.

“I’m sorry about him, Nikiforov,” Yuuri’s coach ( _Sebastian? Celery?_ ) apologizes, arms coiled around Yuuri’s middle. “Did _not_ think he would hit the champagne that hard.”

Viktor smiles despite the tugging pain in his chest as Yuuri clings to his forearms, unwilling to let go. It feels like Yuuri is mirroring the sentiments in Viktor’s own heart, uninhibited by sobriety. Viktor wishes he could be so free.

“Viktor, Viktor,” Yuuri blabbers, and the alcohol must really be getting to him now, because his eyes can’t seem to focus. “Did - Was I good? I was good, right?”

Viktor, touched, grabs onto Yuuri’s hands and holds them tighter than he’s ever held onto anything else in his life. “You were _amazing_ ,” he praises sincerely, tearing up for some reason.

He...he had fun tonight. And he fell in love. He has trouble imagining just going home after all of that. For the first time, his heart is sinking at the prospect of leaving the banquet.

“Really? You really thought I was good?” Yuuri babbles, desperately clawing at Viktor’s sleeves.

Viktor thinks about ebb and flow of their dance together and the unabashed happiness on Yuuri’s face.

“ _Yes_ ,” Viktor insists.

Yuuri’s expression brightens. “Did I look sexy?”

_Err_ … Viktor and Yuuri’s coach give each other a look. The coach shrugs cluelessly.

(The easy answer, of course, is an emphatic _Of course; I’ve never been so turned on in my life_ , but Viktor is not sure how that would go over with Yuuri’s coach. And he’s not sure he’d be able to get the words out in the first place, anyway.)

“ _Yyyes_ ,” Viktor decides slowly, nervous laughter bubbling up from his lungs. His heart flutters when Yuuri grins in delight. “You’re very charming, Yuuri. You have all kinds of potential,” he finds himself confessing before he can stop himself.

Yuuri’s smile grows, pulling Viktor down by the tie and meeting him halfway for a warm kiss by rising to the tips of his toes. Viktor doesn’t have time to react, doesn’t even have time to file away the feeling of Yuuri’s champagne-soaked lips against his, before they’re being pulled apart by Yuuri’s coach.

“Come on, kid,” the man sighs, dragging Yuuri along insistently.

Viktor’s throat closes up. Yuuri waves goodbye and shouts “Come to Hasetsu, Viktor! _Promise_!” just before he’s shoved into a cab. The car drives off and with it, Viktor’s beating heart.

Just like that.

Yuri Plisetsky makes his presence known by clearing his throat. Viktor turns to see the boy standing a few feet behind him, a thoughtful, troubled expression on his young face.

“Are you going to go?” he asks, voice low. His green eyes are concentrated on the cracks in the pavement. “To Hasetsu?”

A part of Viktor jumps gleefully at the thought, full of hope and optimism and wonder and passion. He wants to watch Yuuri’s potential unfurl on the ice the way it just did in the banquet hall. He wants to see. He wants to feel.

“No,” Viktor says somberly, sensibly. “No, I don’t think so.” He wrings his cold, empty hands together for warmth.

Yuri lets out an almost undetectable sigh of relief. “ _Good_. You have a promise to keep.”

(There’s a million promises he has to keep - to Russia, to Yuri, and now, to a remarkable young Japanese man whose career seems to be as stuck as Viktor’s feels. He’s only interested in keeping one.)

The pair is quiet in the still, cold night, but Yuri, typically, makes sure it doesn’t stay that way for long.

“I’m going to pretend this whole night never fucking happened,” Yuri huffs, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Viktor thinks about Yuuri Katsuki and the assortment of pictures of him stored in his phone. Smiling, he whispers “I’m not.”

Yuri pulls up Uber on his phone and doesn’t stop making retching noises until their car arrives.

 

* * *

 

“I cannot _believe_ ,” Viktor says exasperatedly in the privacy of his and Yuuri’s Barcelona hotel room, “that you _don’t remember any of it_.”

Viktor is lying down and running a hand through his hair, feeling his new ring rub against his scalp. He experiences a rush of warmth, despite his exasperation.

Yuuri untangles his scarf from around his neck at the foot of the bed, groaning. “I remember _now_ ,” he begrudges. “The photos jogged my memory. Unfortunately.” He slips his jacket off his shoulders and tosses it onto the rest of his luggage. Viktor watches the ring on Yuuri’s finger glitter in the city lights streaming in from the window.

He pouts. “ _Yuuri_ ,” he says with feeling, “that was the best night of my _life_ .” He slaps a hand over his eyes. “And you don’t even _remember_ ! You must’ve thought I was _insane_ when I first showed up in Hasetsu!” The more Viktor thinks about it, the more embarrassed he is, the more the flames in his cheeks rise.

“Viktor,” Yuuri sighs, crawling across the mattress and prying Viktor’s hand away from his face, finger brushing over his engagement ring. Viktor’s blushing face comes into view. His blue eyes look up at Yuuri helplessly. Yuuri softens, smiling gently before letting out a quiet chuckle. “I mean, I thought maybe you introducing yourself to me naked was because of some sort of cultural difference -”

“ _Yuuri_ -”

“- And I wondered why you were being so touchy, but I just chalked that up to you being a flirt.”

Viktor moans, pained. “I’m not a _flirt_ , I just liked _you_ !” He screws his eyes shut. “ _Why does everyone think that_?” he asks. Yuuri laughs before leaning over Viktor and brushing his feathery hair out of his eyes. He cups his own cheek in his hand, elbow resting on Viktor’s chest.

“Probably because you ballroom danced with a crazy drunk you had just met and let him frot against your leg in front of everybody,” Yuuri reasons, voice strained by the end of his statement. His composure breaks and his head drops against Viktor’s chest. He grabs handfuls of Viktor’s shirt. “ _God_ ,” he laughs in self-deprecation, voice muffled.

Viktor pets the back of Yuuri’s head, suddenly sympathetic, feeling the soft strands of his dark hair slip between his fingers. He keeps staring at his ring. He smiles.

“I had to force myself not to kiss you then, if it helps,” Viktor tries, scratching lightly behind Yuuri’s ear. Yuuri turns his head, cheek smooshed against Viktor’s chest now.

“Are you forcing yourself not to kiss me _now_?” Yuuri asks smoothly, just a hint of nervousness in the waver of his voice. Viktor is so in love it hurts.

“Always,” Viktor says easily, looking up at the ceiling and stroking across Yuuri’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I’d kiss you forever, if I could.”

Yuuri squirms before pushing himself up, a hand on the mattress on either side of Viktor’s head, and looks down at his fiancé (his _fiancé_ ) with a light blush on his cheeks. He ducks down to press a kiss to Viktor’s lips, and Viktor is happy to reciprocate.

“I’m in love with you,” Viktor says softly as they pull apart. Yuuri gets a heated look in his eyes. “I’ve been in love with you since the banquet. And the feeling has only gotten stronger since then. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t remember.” A pause, and then a shrugging, sheepish laugh. “As embarrassing for me as it is.”

Yuuri’s blush grows a little and his nostrils flare at that - it’s the face he makes when he’s mustering up the courage to say something important, Viktor has learned. He makes several attempts at speaking, but they all falter, Yuuri staring at something next to Viktor’s head helplessly. “I’m,” he whispers, shaky, “I’ve always sort of…”

Yuuri struggles to find the right words and then looks at Viktor like he expects _him_ to fill in the blanks. Viktor laughs.

“Well, what is it?” he asks, thumb brushing over Yuuri’s flushed, petal-soft cheek.

Yuuri takes a deep, steadying breath. “Well I,” his eyes clamp shut, “I used to have posters of you all over my bedroom walls.”

Viktor blinks.

“If that helps,” Yuuri adds tightly.

A puff of laughter escapes Viktor’s smiling lips. “ _Really_ \- ?”

“And I named my dog after you,” Yuuri presses on, apparently determined to embarrass himself ( _To make me feel better_ , Viktor realizes). “And I’m pretty sure you’re the reason why I figured out I like m-men.”

Viktor laughs and gives his fiancé (his _fiancé_ !) a coddling look. “Oh, _Yuuri_ \- “

“And _I’m_ the one who incited half-naked dance offs with professional skaters I didn’t even _know_ and then basically sexually assaulted you in front of everyone at that banquet,” Yuuri interrupts animatedly, “And then acted like _nothing happened_ for about a year afterwards, so if _anyone_ has the right to feel embarrassed, it’s _me_ .” He huffs, out of breath, eyebrows stitched together in frustration. “ _Ugh._ ” He collapses on top of Viktor again, defeated.

Viktor _awww_ ’s and hugs Yuuri tightly, pressing kisses to the top of his head. “ _Yuuri_ , my love, my life - you were beautiful, in every possible way,” he says, somewhat theatrically. “And your sexual advances that night were welcome.” He smothers a laugh as Yuuri stews in his arms, each reminder of the banquet stoking the fire Viktor can feel burning on Yuuri’s cheeks.

Suddenly, Yuuri pins Viktor’s arms over his head, still blushing but with a confident air about him. Viktor likes every side of Yuuri - really, what’s not to like? - but this is one of his favorites; the one that dances the line between nervous inexperience and burning passion.

Yuuri licks his lips. “Would they be welcome now?” he wonders, voice low.

Viktor grins teasingly. “Why, are you going to hump my leg again?”

Yuuri sputters, expression going sour, and smacks Viktor, who finds the whole situation hilarious, in the face with a pillow. Viktor bursts out laughing. Yuuri hikes up Viktor’s shirt and starts leaving a trail of feather-light kisses over Viktor’s stomach. Viktor squirms, ticklish and still barking out laughter, until Yuuri jumps on top of him, grabs his chin, and sips down Viktor’s giggles like bubbly champagne in a sweet kiss.

Despite the lack of alcohol, they both feel a little drunk, with the added benefit of remembering every detail the next morning.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I NEEDED SOMETHING FUN AFTER EPISODE 11 OK. But don't worry you guys, I think it'll all work out. In the meantime, i hope you enjoyed my fic! drunk yuuri is the best yuuri. yuuri canonically knowing how to pole dance is even better. I Will Never Be Over It.
> 
> talk to me about victuri [here](http://voidfeesh.tumblr.com//) oooooor you could check out my art blog [here](http://luftballons99.tumblr.com/)


End file.
